


Unmoored

by ianavi



Series: Short Ends [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desire, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was him now. This. And he knew exactly what was happening. He swallowed once more, stifled a whimper, kept silent, felt his shoulders shake slightly from the exertion, felt his back exposed and damp with sweat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmoored

A silent and slightly painful swallow, his face buried in the pillow, his knees bound by twisted sheets, fist cramped under his body and stickily wet with semen. This was him now. This. And he knew exactly what was happening. He swallowed once more, stifled a whimper, kept silent, felt his shoulders shake slightly from the exertion, felt his back exposed and damp with sweat. Fuck.

It was a quick becoming, him, them, no only him, only him. At once stuck and unbound in a sea of cuttingly sharp sentiment. His previous self was but a far glimpse, a memory of standing on the precipice and not even knowing it, and now falling, falling, falling. The then had been work, forward conversations seeking answers, documents read, persons interviewed, clues sought, cases closed. The now was composed of controlled exchanges, reserved shrugs, a constant pounding of want, of nerves shredded, of embarrassment in waves, a whisper of a touch while passing in the flat's corridor... Fuck, fuck, fuck, that passing slight and accidental touch, its rub against his consciousness, his starched shirt and below it his wanting skin, and now, now, and for a while now he knew exactly what was happening.

Outside the winter sun rose in the early hours. He pulled the covers over himself, over his naked skin souring with sticky sweat and desperation he now acknowledged for what it was, fuck. Fuck! Felt tired, reluctant to move, reluctant to get up and face another frustrating day of... This, this infatuation! And the fantasies that enveloped it - the constantly shifting narratives of confrontation, transparency and sucumbing, a fantasy that will never come to life, that was only his mind's work, his mind's sadistic atlas of points of despair, timidity, cowardice, melancholy. He growled into the pillow, dug his front deeper into the filthy linens.

A bass line humming down from his thoughts and through the floor and further earthing into deepest, soiled debasement. And listening, still listening. The sounds now imprinted into his flesh. Sharp cutouts of instances stolen in the past weeks of the other man laughing or grunting as his back stiffened or humming at small pleasures like tea or a pleasant evening meal. And a few small cracks of his own stiff spine kept immobile for hours while sitting on the sofa and listening with his eyes closed, enveloped by the fleeting sounds of the other's quotidian existence. The most irrelevant traces, knocks, breaths, steps, scratches leaving imprints deeper and more permanent than any tatoos.

Yesterday he stood on a crowded street corner just at the crossing, allowing the multitude of passing bodies to knock into his side unapologetically. Seeking for a single instance of shudder. Of course. Exactly. Not happening. As he stood and felt the bumps, felt his body shifting left or right, knocked about, in the way, pushed, felt even the palm of one and spittle flying off another, he stood calm and alone. Nothing to rub him raw, none to shift the ground under his feet by simply smiling. He drew his coat tails closer and walked faster home. 

And just two days ago he upturned all the drawers in the flat looking for nothing, accepting anything. A mess. He was a mess. And he knew exactly what was happening. So he took a mallet and started hammering nails into random surfaces, into walls, books abandoned on tables, unsuccessfully into one then shattered porcelain plate. Its splinters not unlike his own.

Fuck, the smells. More days than not he found himself lost over an empty tea cup, tracing its edge with his fingertips (not the tip of his tongue, but almost, almost), a damp towel used on his own wet skin. An abandoned dirty sock he'd stood above for more minutes than he was ready to admit to, one he'd then picked up and with shame brought to his nose. There were three used forks under his pillow. He knew and pretended not to know. It was a constant hum of slight but present pain, just there, shallow, under the surface, never overpowering. His gestures, his speech even more controlled. He thought of it as a crackling along the surface of him, the neuroreceptors come manifest against the surface of his skin. His lips felt raw. He wondered if he had bit them or if...

A knock against the door of his room startled him. He opened his eyes with a jolt.

"You awake in there?"


End file.
